Grudge
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: *CAT* "In ceremonies of the horsemen, even the pawn must hold a grudge."
1. The Invitations

_Disclaimer: Don't worry if your readership is small and your copyrights are few, just remember that the mighty Lansdale was once just as unknown as you._

_CATverse A/N: This story is part of the CATverse. Don't know what that is? Go check out freewebs. com/ catverse to find out. This takes place in arc seven._

_A/N: I took a perverse, twisted sort of pleasure in writing Harley Quinn's characterization in this; couldn't stop smiling the whole time. Thus, I am forever shamed. Also, I can't tell you when this will be updated again; things have been nuts around these parts lately and are bound to get even nuttier. Hopefully I can wrap up the story by summer's end, but I make no promises._

_Finally, if you've never seen __**Murder by Death**__, __**Clue**__ or __**Who Killed Who?**__…now would be a good time._

* * *

**7:49 A.M.**

Two-Face woke. He staggered out of bed, hungover, and shot the first henchmen who dared make a noise as he stumbled across his path. The young man (Charlie Muckle, only twenty-three, blonde, balding and prone to stuttering) took the bullet to the shoulder like a trouper-a few tears aside. As he clutched his bleeding arm, he offered what was left of the Bloody Mary he had made for his boss, half of which was now spilled on the floor-and whimpered a very contrite and very convincing apology.

The criminal grabbed the glass and killed the contents in two and a half swallows. Charlie had gone a little heavy on the Worcestershire sauce and Two-Face considered shooting him again on principle, but ultimately decided it wasn't worth the effort. Especially not if it meant the sound of another gunshot assaulting his tender ears.

"Buh-buh-buh-boss," the sniveling, bleeding hench ventured, garnering a bloodshot glare from his employer, "somebody…somebody left somethin' for you. An…an in-in-invitation."

Two-Face growled, hurled the glass at the nearest wall where it shattered on impact, and then hauled poor Charlie up by the collar. All the blood drained from the young man's face and he came dangerously close to wilting into a faint. "Well? _Where is it_?"

"Buh-buh-buh-" Charlie swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat like a ping-pong ball, "buh-bathroom, sir."

With a grunt, Two-Face dropped Charlie unceremoniously to the ground and started for the bathroom. The fluorescent bulb buzzed to life when he hit the switch and he winced, shielding his eyes with one hand until they could adjust to the blinding white light. When he finally drew his hand away from his face and surveyed the bathroom, he found a piece of paper taped to the mirror. The invitation was handwritten and all the letters were backwards, a not-so-subtle hint that he should hold it up in front of the mirror to read it properly.

He did so, frowned thoughtfully at the message and then gave his reflection a glance. He had to admire this proposed host's sense of whimsy. Words that had to be read in a mirror to be understood? How very fitting.

Harvey Dent watched as Two-Face flipped his silver dollar and caught it deftly. He tore his attention from the mirror and looked down at the scarred face of Lady Liberty.

Two-Face tore the invitation up.

**9:31 A.M.**

"Her name was Looooola, she was a shoooowgirl," Harley sang, dancing around the kitchen she shared with Poison Ivy as she watered the plants that hung from every piece of available countertop, "with yellow feathers in her haaaaair and a dress cut down to there! Somethin', something', la la la la laaaaaaaa…"

On the couch, lying on her stomach, Poison Ivy pressed her pillow to either side of her head, trying to stifle the racket. "Harley!"

"Yeah, Red?" Harley turned, the waterspout of her watering can carelessly tipped a bit too far to one side, dribbling water onto the linoleum.

Ivy sat up, fixing her best and only friend with a cool, appraising look. "What's the rule?"

The blonde bit one side of her bottom lip and looked upwards as though trying to recall. In a few seconds, her face lit up and she grinned ear to ear, pleased with herself. "Never wear white pants after labor day."

Ivy's glare got just the least bit steelier. "The _other_ rule."

"Uhm…don't bring home any more stray kittens?" Harley guessed.

"_No Manilow before breakfast."_

Harley's brow furrowed and she frowned. "Oh. Sorry, Red. I forgot."

Ivy released a sound somewhere between a grumble and a sigh as she flopped back down on the couch. "It's alright, Harl."

Harley beamed at being forgiven and returned to the task at hand. "You know, Red, you really need more music in your life. It makes plants flourish, y'know? There are studies and everything."

Ivy didn't respond, but rolled over onto her side, back to her bubbly roommate, intend on returning to slumber. Sleep hadn't been forthcoming until five in the morning and even plant people needed _some_ respite from the harsh rigors of man's world. Her eyes slid shut and she listened to the rhythmic, hypnotic shuffling of Harley's feet as she shambled around the kitchen, watering the plants and preparing breakfast. Ivy sighed, yawned widely and let sleep overtake her for a few precious seconds before…

Knock, knock, knock, knock-knock!

"Two bits!" Harley automatically responded in a sing-song voice that shook Ivy out of her nap. Ivy sat up, blearily glaring at the door where the knocking originated. Harley skipped across the kitchen and opened the door, not caring that she was only dressed in a baggy t-shirt and socks.

Standing in the doorway, dressed in an outfit that was halfway between a drum majorette and a bellhop, a cheery young woman stood, grinning for all she was worth. Her short, curly brown hair was stuffed underneath a pillbox hat and her bucktooth smile made her look like a very merry chipmunk.

"Uh, hel-"

"You're inviiiiiited!" the singing telegram burst out, flinging her arms wise. She started to match in place, theatrically gesturing every few seconds as she sang to the tune of 'The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down'. "Oh, yes, _you_! There's a party in town and you're on the guest list! Trust me, dollface, you don't wanna miss this!"

Harley cackled and clapped with delight as the telegram continued her song, completely oblivious to the creeping jennies that were making their way across the kitchen floor behind her. "It's the biggest bash you've ever heard of! With a band of rogues we promise you'll love! So come on down! Join the fun! Come to-"

The slinking vines struck suddenly, bypassing Harley entirely and grabbing the singer by the throat. Several tendrils wrapped around her arms and legs, effectively trapping her and keeping her immobile as the others strangled her. Harley spun on her heel and looked at Ivy in horror. "Red! Stop it!"

Ivy remained impassive, meeting Harley's shocked and horrified gaze evenly. The telegram gagged and made a valiant effort to claw at the vines around her windpipe. The pink envelope she'd had in hand fluttered to the corridor floor. "She knows where we live, Harley."

"Yeah, but-"

The choking sounds started to subside. "_Nobody_ can know where we live, Harley."

"But…" Harley turned back to look at the telegram with regret. The girl was starting to turn purple, her jaw moving sluggishly as she tried to grab a precious mouthful of air. "But she has such a _nice_ singing voice."

"_Harley._"

Harley sighed and pouted as the vines released their hold on the telegram, dropping her to the ground once they were through squeezing the life out of her. "I guess you're right, Red."

"It's for the best, Harley." The vines gathered up the body of the singing telegram, wrapped her in a protective cocoon of greenery and pushed her to the door of the suspiciously overlarge garbage chute at the end of the hallway. Once the body was properly disposed of, the vines withdrew back into the apartment, grabbing up the pink envelope as they went. The slip of perfumed recycled paper was deposited in Ivy's hand by her loyal plant and she tore it open, giving its contents a perfunctory glance.

"What is it, Red?" Harley asked as she closed the door and returned to her breakfast making duties.

"An invitation." She gave a little snort. "To a _dinner party_."

"Oooh!" Harley squealed, hopping in place twice. "Can we go? Can we? Oh, please?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"No one invites us to dinner parties, Harl. It's probably a trap."

"But…please, Red?"

"Harley…"

Harley's eyes went wide and pleading and she clasped her hands in front of herself. "Pleeeeeeeeeease?"

Ivy didn't break eye contact with her friend for several agonizing moments and sighed heavily, a sign of the beginning of surrender. "I'll think about it."

"Yay!" Harley beamed.

"Don't gloat."

"Sorry, Red. You go back to sleep. I'll wake you when breakfast is ready." Ivy lifted an eyebrow and Harley hastily corrected herself. "I mean…maybe lunch. I'll wake you up in time for _lunch._"

Harley returned to her breakfast as Ivy collapsed back on the sofa. The botanical terror breathed deep, relaxing into the cushions for a few more hours of shut eye. Silence-blessed, blessed silence-reigned for a few minutes, but then the blonde in the kitchen started to hum. Ivy didn't mind much. Humming was fine, as it was completely ignorable, but eventually Harley started mumbling the lyrics, growing incrementally louder until finally she belted, "Caaaaaaaaaaan you head the drums, Fernando?"

"No Abba, _either!_"

**10:13 A.M.**

_Yogurt kitten spout,_

_Open throttle trout,_

_Ukulele waddle fiddle,_

_Acetate chocolate griddle,_

_Returning adder blues,_

_Existence misfit shoes,_

_Incredible orange barbarian,_

_Night sediment librarian,_

_Vampire mime willow,_

_Island shriek itch pillow,_

_Target ruthless raven,_

_Even shocking craven,_

_Dueling cavalier caviar!_

"Some nonsense," the Mad Hatter said meaningfully to his favorite teacup, "is less sensical than others."

He crumpled the invitation and stuffed it under his hat.

"Ukulele waddle fiddle indeed," he grumbled, refilling his teacup to the brim with air. "_Everyone_ knows that a waddle fiddle is a type of _mandolin!_"

**11:11 A.M.**

Little known fact: Killer Croc's mail is often too soggy to bother reading.

**11:29 A.M.**

Another little known fact: Solomon Grundy _eats_ his.

**12:30 P.M.**

Selina Kyle sat at her customary table at a tiny neighborhood bistro on the upper west side and looked over the menu even though she didn't really need to. She gathered a few inquisitive glances-a beautiful woman eating alone usually did-but she didn't notice. Dining alone was something she enjoyed doing, having never been a particularly social creature, and considering how much her life as a socialite demanded interaction at various soirees, she took a strange sort of delight in quiet, solitary moments like this.

The waiter approached, a cute little redhead with face full of freckles and a crooked smile that Selina couldn't help but return. He was seventeen if he was a day. "Uhm, are you ready to order ma'am? Uh-miss! I mean miss! Are you ready to order, miss?"

Her eyes lit with unexpressed mirth as the waiter nervously ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. "Ma'am is fine. I'll have the chicken salad sandwich, on wheat and a glass of tomato juice, please."

The waiter took her menu and blushed when her fingers brushed his during the exchange. She smiled just a little wider, enjoying how easily she could still fluster a youngster with just a glance. She was used to being ogled, but there was something so charmingly innocent about the waiter who couldn't hold her gaze for more than a second at a time that she couldn't stop grinning, even after he stumbled away.

She turned her attention to the large picture window and looked out at the hustle and bustle of Gotham in the midday sun. For once, the sky was blue and virtually cloudless and the citizens were out in full force, eating at hotdog stands and sipping coffee on street corners, enjoying the unusually nice weather.

"Excuse me, miss? Erm…ma'am?"

Selina turned and met the eyes of the flustered waiter. He held a deep violet envelope in his hands, trimmed with black. In elegant script, the words "The Brunette at Table Nine" were written in emerald green ink.

"I think this is for you." He offered the envelope shyly and she took it.

"Thank you," she responded politely, frowning as she studied the handwriting. The writing was very delicate, bordering on the feminine, and was obviously made by a steady, practiced hand. The waiter excused himself and she brought the envelope to her nostrils, giving it a whiff. The cloying, sweet scent of a very high end perfume assaulted her senses and she sneezed.

She sniffled twice and tore the envelope open. An ivory invitation was enclosed. The paper was thick, expensive card stock, and the message on it was handwritten, alternating lines of black and purple ink.

_How much is that kitten in the window?_

_The one with the bullwhip and mask?_

Instantly, Selina's head jerked up and she scanned her surroundings. She gave every patron of the bistro a glance, trying to determine who might be watching her for a reaction. Everyone else was engrossed in whatever they were doing-couples gazing at each other over their sandwiches, girlfriends gossiping over their salads-no one gave a fleeting look in her direction. Selina bit her lip and looked back down at the invitation.

A date and time was printed at the very bottom of page, as well as an address. Her eyebrows knit together as she considered. While she was suspicious, she was also terribly, _terribly_ curious…

She smirked to herself, shook her head and tucked the invitation back into its envelope.

"Oh, no. Not _this_ time."

**1:56 P.M.**

Lex Luthor's invitation arrived in the form of a gift basket full of rocks that were painted neon green.

He was not amused.

**2:15 P.M.**

Oswald Cobblepot's invitation was delivered by a Strip-O-Gram.

He _was_ amused.

**3:21 P.M.**

_A cad die olive truly irony_

_A flagrancies right omit too op_

_Egomania ginger, I._

_Slain vile sunday log on!_

With a flourish, Edward Nygma withdrew a pencil from his breast pocket and made short work of deciphering the senseless anagram, muttering to himself the entire time.

"Just because it's an anagram," he grumbled, crossing out each letter as they were used, "doesn't mean it's clever. A little _effort_ would be nice."

_You are cordially invited_

_To a gathering of import_

_In Enigma, Georgia._

_Villains and rogues only!_

Eddie chewed the end of his pencil and the phone rang, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Eddums?" a voice crackled over the line.

"Techie?"

"Yeah. Strange question. Are you having a party?"

He frowned. "What?"

"We got invitations," she replied. "Dinner party, Enigma, Georgia. We figured…"

"No, not me."

"Huh."

"I got one too."

"Weird."

"Yeah."

Edward was silent. So was Techie. The silence stretched to the point of awkwardness, then went on a little longer, just for good measure.

Edward scratched his head and cleared his throat. "So…uh…you guys going?"

"Eh. Sure. Why the hell not?" There was another awkward silence. "You?"

Edward looked down at the invitation, turned it over in his hands a few times and shrugged, even though she couldn't see it. "I guess."

"Then...uhm. We'll see you there."

"Is Jonathan going?"

"He's not exactly in love with the idea." Techie chuckled nervously. "But after the Captain Cold incident, I don't think he'd let us leave him behind."

Edward's eyebrows shot up. "Captain Cold…incident? There was a whole _incident_?"

"Um. Yeah. Airport parking garage, hypothermia. It's a long story. Look, I've gotta go. We'll see you at the party."


	2. The Arrival

_A/N: This chapter is filled with continuity nods, canon characters and very, very subtle references. How many can YOU spot? There **will **be a quiz! And maybe even a prize!_

* * *

**6:57 AM**

…and five clacks against the dashboard, one for each aqua and purple checked fingernail.

Ivy took a breath, counted down, _Four, three, two…_

"Are we there yet?"

She gripped the wheel a little tighter, feeling the slick sweat on the leather, and slanted her eyes at Harley, who was folded up in the passenger seat under nine different unfolded road maps. "Shouldn't I be asking _you_ that?"

Harley had the good grace to look sheepish and pluck at the maps, halfheartedly glancing at one and trying to find their current location. It was hard to tell if the blush on her cheeks was from shame or the ungodly hot southern climate. "Sorry, Red, I kinda lost track."

"Well, _find_ track," Ivy responded a bit impatiently, but without any real urgency. She felt physically drained by the heat, exhausted and worn down, and no wonder. The air conditioner had crapped out more than three hundred miles back, during Harley's last six hour shift, and the windows being rolled down seemed to do more harm than good. Ivy's skin felt hot and sticky, but her lips were so dry that she thought they might crack and peel with the delivery of one too many sarcastic remark.

The rebuke still seemed to prick Harley's feelings, mild though it was, probably because she was feeling the effects of the temperature just as badly as her friend was. She motioned at the maps in her lap, slightly distressed. "I'll try, but...there's just so much south!"

Ivy sighed so quietly it was barely audible as she drove. How she'd allowed Harley to talk her into this, she wasn't entirely sure, but here they were, more than twelve hours and several alternating shifts behind them, and it seemed as though the sign for _Enigma, Georgia_ would never appear on the horizon.

Harley hummed to herself as she scanned the maps without any real interest, and Ivy focused as hard as she could on the road. It was getting more and more difficult with each passing minute; she was all but wilting in the unforgiving climate. Waves of moist heat rolled off the blacktop that stretched in front of the car, shimmering like a mirage, and the trees on either side of the road swayed hypnotically in the hot breeze, trying very hard to lull the driver into a trance-like state. Every once in awhile, she would catch a glimpse of something large, mossy and lumbering moving slowly in the trees, and feel the slightest whispers of theGreen at the edges of her consciousness, but she brushed it off, blaming it on the abundance of plant life and her eyes playing tricks on her.

(Why the greenery was discussing parliament, she didn't know.)

Harley shuffled the maps around, made thoughtful noises and frowned cartoonishly, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. "Ya seen any signs lately? For towns or stuff like that?"

Ivy took a breath of the oppressively damp air, which did little to make her feel better. "We just passed a sign for Houma."

"_Houma_?" Harley squeaked, then coughed in an exaggerated fashion to try and cover it.

Ivy glanced away from the road for a split second and fixed Harley with a look that was part suspicion and part full-on accusation. "Harley..."

Harley smiled the smile of someone who was sick but putting on a brave front. "Yes, Red?"

"What's wrong with Houma?"

"Oh," Harley gulped and giggled nervously, smoothing the maps she'd been studying, "Nothin'. Nothin's wrong with Houma, Red."

"Harley," Ivy repeated, her tone filled with warning. "What. Is. Wrong. With. Houma?"

"I hear it's a nice place!" Harley jabbered, with false cheer. "A nice place with...swamp monsters and punk rock mermaid vampires and stuff like that! Neato-keen! Right, Red? We can have a swampy adventure on the way to Enigma, which isn't really that far from here at all."

"Harley," Ivy said with rising impatience. "Just how far away from Enigma is Houma?"

"Well, it's like this, Red," she began, voice wavering only the tiniest bit. "Remember when it was my turn to drive and you were asleep and I stopped to get some Ho-Hos because mm-mm yummy I sure do like Ho-Hos, they're the perfect road food! And...and...I guess I musta taken a wrong turn somewhere on the way out of the gas station...but to be fair I did hold up the joint, and the guy behind the counter had a shotgun! And...and..."

"_How far_?"

Harley grinned without mirth, her eyes desperately pleading for forgiveness before her crime was in the open.

"Lou...isiana?"

The car came to a screeching halt, the tires actually burning rubber from the sudden stop.

"Harley!"

**8:21 AM**

"Damnedest thing, Frisbee," old man Devlin said from around a mouthful of chewing tobacco.

"Ayup," his companion scratched his bald head and then replaced his baseball cap.

"How do you figger..."

"No idea."

"Some kind of a freak storm, d'ya think?"

"Mebbe. Had one-a them 'bout twenty year ago. Killed all Ma's tomato plants in the middle of July."

"That was just a little frost," the old farmer replied with a frown, "I ain't never seen a whole _field_ froze over."

"Mebbe old man winter was passin' through."

Devlin strode forward a few steps and knocked on the solid block of ice in the middle of the field.

"But did he have to freeze the cows, too?"

**11:34 AM**

Edward Nygma's stolen car puttered quite merrily along the highway in North Carolina, the air conditioner pumping deliciously frigid air right into his face. Having taken it from the long term parking section of an airport garage just an hour after it had shown up there, he was guaranteed to have at least a couple of days before the theft was reported, and that was all the time he needed to get where he was going.

So far, the drive had been kind of strange, but that was to be expected, considering the circumstances. A little ways outside of Gotham, he'd gotten turned around somehow, and stopped at a gas station outside Atlantic City.

The attendant was little help—the gas station had run out of maps, for goodness sake!—but the fellow over on pump number eleven was kind enough to quickly copy down some directions based on the road atlas he had in his glove compartment. After a brief introduction that consisted of a handshake ("James. Keystone." "Edward. Gotham.") and a few basic pleasantries ("Still have that Rogue problem?" "Still have _yours_?") Edward was right back on the road again.

Bizarrely, following the directions he'd been given, Edward found himself on interesting back roads rather than stretches of boring gray highway, and passed more unusual landmarks than he knew what to do with. The map led him through Ocean City, a place seemingly made up of nothing but miniature golf courses in varying themes and hotels that hadn't been updated since the nineteen fifties; past service stations with giant green dinosaurs lounging in their lots; past the Model Tobacco Company, an abandoned building that actually resembled a pack of cigarettes, though it was unclear if that was intentional or not, and now, past billboard after billboard advertising someplace called _South of the Border. _If the advertisements were any indication whatsoever, it promised to be the _worst_ sort of tourist trap.

The first few had been easy enough to ignore, though he had a tough time containing himself when he glimpsed one with a giant three dimensional hot dog on it accompanied by the caption _You Never Sausage a Place!_, but when he actually neared the state line, he found himself gawping so much that he nearly ran off the road and into the grass in front of the _Silver Arcade_, which for some reason was adorned with a glass slipper made entirely of neon.

Gotham and its villains were certainly not known for their subtlety, what with all the death defying battles taking place on giant typewriters and capers involving turning the local water supply into strawberry jam, but to the best of his knowledge, none of Gotham's water towers were shaped like sombreros, there weren't any marquees shaped like giant _bandidos_ and there weren't random plaster gorillas dressed in t-shirts, giant turtles, dachshunds and dinosaurs in hats scattered around the city.

As if on cue, the car's dashboard gave a 'ding!' and the fuel light popped on, warning him that the gas tank was running low. _Well_, he thought, pulling into the nearest filling station, _this is as good a place to stop as any_.

A muzak version of _The Girl from Ipanema_ greeted Edward when he hopped out of the car and popped off the gas cap. He didn't _want_ to hum along, but he found it impossible not to, as he took the opportunity to study his surroundings more intently as he filled the tank. The tourist trap to end all tourist traps, all he could think as he looked around was that if the Joker ever decided to pop down this way and saw how gloriously gaudy it was, he'd inevitably throw a _fiesta_, and the place would be leveled in seconds.

As strange as South of the Border itself was, and as hard as it was to tear his eyes away from all the bizarre statuary and kitsch, everything else paled in comparison to the other gas station patrons at the pump directly across from him once he noticed them.

There was only one other car at the pumps, a cherry red convertible with the seats covered in Zebra print fake fur and a pair of aquamarine fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror. The car alone was enough to make him stare, but its owners were two very scantily clad women in their twenties, one blonde, one brunette. Edward tried very hard not to ogle, but failed at that just as surely as he'd failed to resist the siren song of _Ipanema_.

In a pair of acid green hot pants and an orange halter top covered with silver spangles, the blonde washed the dead bugs off the convertible's windshield, doing an admirable job of bending over without _tipping_ over in a pair of white platform go-go boots embossed with hot pink hearts. She was chewing bubble gum happily, her hair in pigtails that reminded him of Harley a little bit more than he wanted to admit, and huge earrings shaped like flying saucers—the same color as her shorts—dangled from her ears.

The car was old enough to have a gas tank in the trunk, rather than on the side, and the brunette stood at the back of the car, filling it impatiently. From the top of her head to the heels of her shoes, she gave her companion a run for her money in the flashily dressed department. Tight leopard print jeans, a red off-the-shoulder top and a wide white vinyl belt was topped off with knee high black suede stiletto boots, dripping with fringe.

"—and anyway," the blonde said conversationally as she leaned over further, trying to reach the very top of the windshield with the squeegee, "I don't see why we've gotta do _this_ place."

As they were on opposite ends of the car, they spoke loud enough that the Riddler was eavesdropping whether he wanted to or not.

"_Look_ at it," the brunette replied, gesturing around. "It's just so..._offensive_. It has _got_ to go."

"Yeah, okay, I guess it _is_ pretty tacky."

"That's not what I..." The brunette sighed and blew an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. "Know what? Never mind."

"Aye, aye, ma'am. Never minding, as ordered." The blonde crossed to the passenger side of the vehicle to wash that side of the windshield, and Edward caught her eye as she leaned forward, inadvertently treating him to a generous flash of cleavage in the process. His face heated a little bit and he looked away, suddenly finding the advertisement next to the pump "Two-for-one chili dogs!" utterly _fascinating_.

"Hiya, handsome," she called over, completely ruining his brilliant plan of nonchalance.

He reluctantly glanced over and acknowledged her with a slight nod, briefly touching the brim of his bowler derby with his free hand rather than lifting it entirely. "Miss."

"Oh, a gentleman!" The blonde gave him the kind of dazzling smile that would make any straight man's stomach do flip-flops inside him, hardened criminal or not. "He's kinda _cute_, Carmen."

The brunette, Carmen, glanced over and smiled at him too, the kind of smile that did funny things to stomachs _and_ knees, but only for a second before turning back to her companion. "_Focus_, Bonnie. We've got work."

Bonnie winked and waved, wiggling her fingers at him flirtatiously while putting the squeegee back in its place at the side of the pump. "Yeah, I know. Still nice to look, though."

_Sure is,_ Edward thought, completely oblivious to the fact that his gas tank had started to overflow, gasoline trickling down the side of his car, and finally sploshing on the ground. Only when the puddle reached his shoes did he look down and notice that he'd overfilled by at least a gallon. He immediately yanked the nozzle free, cursing as it continued to spray everywhere even though he'd released the pressure on the handle. He felt a splatter as liquid soaked through the cuffs of his pants before the nozzle gave a pathetic sputter and spent the last of its gasoline.

He stood there, only partially soaked, looking both surprised and forlorn at this embarrassing turn of events.

Edward wasn't _thoroughly_ drenched, but it was definitely enough to dampen his spirits.

With a sigh, he dared to look over at the two incredibly attractive young women who were staring at him and were definitely _not_ covered in gasoline.

They were both barely holding in maniacal giggles.

"Happens to lots of guys," Bonnie called over, popping her gum.

"Perfectly normal," Carmen added very seriously, but no matter how valiant an effort it may have been to keep from smiling, her sparkling eyes gave her away.

With gasoline pooling in his socks, he'd never been more humiliated in all his life.

No, wait, there was that one time when he built a secret hideout in the shape of a question mark. That was pretty humiliating. Well, that was more _stupid_ than humiliating. Oh! But then there was the time...

Er...maybe it was better not to remember that.

With as much dignity as he could manage while visibly blushing, Edward returned the pump where it belonged, straightened his jacket and turned towards station. He crossed the parking lot, entered, ignored the smirk the clerk was giving him, grabbed a novelty t-shirt to wear, paid and then left. It took all of a minute and a half, but the convertible was mercifully pulling out of the lot by the time he set foot outside. He started for his car, feeling only mildly less embarrassed than before, but before he could take two steps, the gas pump handle that he had carelessly replaced before going into the station dislodged itself and hit the ground.

He saw the spark. He saw it leap into the pool of fuel that he'd been standing in just a few minutes earlier. He saw it ignite and managed to get out "Oh, _sh—_" before the entire pump erupted in flames. He got the "—it" out just in time for the fire to make the leap to his stolen car, and then migrate to a nearby gorilla statue that went up so fast it might as well have been flash paper.

From fiberglass animal to fiberglass animal, the flames jumped from place to place until there was fire in every direction he looked. His newly purchased t-shirt trailing on the ground, Edward stared, too dumbstruck to even bother to panic.

Why, oh _why_ did this sort of thing always have to happen to _him_?

The roar of an engine pulled him out of his stupor long enough for him to turn. The bright red convertible with its two gorgeous occupants barreled through a wall of flames at top speed, its driver screaming "Yahoo!" as it zipped past him. Edward was yanked by the collar with so much force he nearly came flying out of his shoes, and found himself thrown into the backseat, crumpled into a very uncomfortable heap, only very vaguely aware of how he got there.

With another excited cry, Carmen stomped on the accelerator even harder and the car lurched through the blaze once more, clearing the gas station fire with a screech of tires and the smell of burning rubber. It fishtailed on the blacktop, first to the left, then to the right, before it straightened out and jumped a grassy divide onto the highway. Edward tried to unfold himself and clumsily managed to scramble up into the seat.

"How ya doin' back there, handsome?" Bonnie asked, leaning back over the passenger seat and peering at him over a pair of heart shaped sunglasses.

"I blew up a gas station."

"Ha!" Carmen crowed from behind the wheel. "You sure did, honey!"

"We were going to blow it up anyhow," Bonnie said with a laugh. "Sorry about your car, though."

Edward recovered surprisingly quickly and shrugged. "It wasn't mine."

He saw Carmen flash him a knowing grin in the rear view mirror. His stomach flipped over, and it had nothing to do with her driving. "So, need a ride?"

"I highly doubt you're going where _I_ am."

"Don't count on it, sugar." Carmen's reflection winked at him. "We've got a thing for hard luck cases."

"_Cute_ hard luck cases," Bonnie clarified. "Besides, we owe you."

"Owe...me?"

"Yeah, we _were_ going to blow up the whole town, but you saved us at _least_ a stick of dynamite or five!"

Edward blinked a few times. "You were?"

"We're assassins, a-duh," Bonnie said proudly. "_Fabulous_ assassins."

"And you...get paid to blow up tourist attractions?"

"Nah, got bored." Edward stared at Carmen. She shrugged one shapely shoulder. "What? It's an off week."

Bonnie popped her gum a few times and smiled at him mischievously. "I bet we're not the only ones."

"Why, Bonnie, what_ever_ could you mean?"

"Oh, I'm just wonderin'—ponderin', really—what a big city fella like our friend here is doin' out in the middle of nowhere."

"That _is_ a good question," Carmen agreed a little too sincerely. "A puzzle, even."

"Hey, Carmen, would you go so far as to call it a riddle?"

"Don't let's be _gauche_, Bon." The giggle was implied. "I think it's far more accurate to say it's an _enigma._"

Bonnie folded her arms on the headrest of her seat and leaned towards Edward. "Okay, Bowler Boy. Spill it."

Edward narrowed his eyes at her a little. "Why?"

"Look, I like you," a gun that seemed to appear out of thin air pressed into Edward's nose, "but I'll still shoot you."

"Don't make her do that," Carmen warned, "it takes forever to get blood out of this upholstery."

"I'm going to a party," he tried very hard not to squeak.

"A party?"

He nodded as much as he dared with the barrel of a gun shoved against his face. "Very exclusive. Villains only. In Georgia."

The women glanced at each other briefly.

"_Georgia?_"

"Obvious trap," Carmen said bluntly.

"And you were dumb enough to _go_?"

Edward nodded, very slowly, though he wouldn't have said he was _dumb enough_. He had considered the options and found that his curiosity far outweighed the risk, especially since word had spread that he wasn't the only one to receive an invitation.

Bonnie pulled the gun away and looked at her partner-in-crime, beaming. "Well, there's just one thing to do."

The engine roared as Carmen hit the accelerator, pushing the convertible well into overdrive. "We crash!"

**5:35 PM**

Jonathan Crane pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut tightly. "You dragged me all the way here…"

"You didn't have to come," Al said in a gruff monotone, her arms crossed over her chest in a show of undeniable stubbornness.

He continued as though she hadn't said anything. "...we went to all the trouble of securing Captain's mother as a babysitter _for a week_..."

"I could have stayed home with Kitten."

"…and you aren't even going to go inside?"

"Nope." She stared out the windshield.

Jonathan briefly considered gassing her, thought about the way she would scream and squirm in the driver's seat, probably thrashing so violently she's smash her head on the steering wheel and blow the horn, but then discarded the idea. He was in Georgia; he needed all the spare toxin he had. Wasting it on Al was out of the question.

"Aren't you the _least_ bit concerned about the other two twits getting themselves killed?"

"Why, Squishy," she turned to look at him with mocking skepticism, "are _you_?"

"Naturally," he said dryly.

"See, that's what I thoug—wait, _what_?"

"I would _much_ prefer if you _all_ got yourselves killed."

"Oh, Squishykins," Al fluttered her eyelashes at him, "even after all these years?"

"_Always_."

"Well, too bad," she said bluntly. "I'm not going inside."

Her face brightened and he hated her just a little bit more. "So, since we're in Georgia...you wanna go blow up your old high school?"

**5:41 PM**

The mansion stood on a hill, as most sinister mansions are wont to do. The hill was ringed by a rotting wooden fence, but the ground the fence stakes were driven into was uneven, causing it to rise and fall in a jagged pattern, like decaying, crooked teeth. The grass wasn't green, per se, more of a brown that—if it got ambitious—might one day aspire to be green-_ish_: a sickly color firmly straddling the line between mold and brown mustard.

Surrounding the fence, and, by extension, the mansion, was swampland, soggy, muddy and stagnant. The air was positively thick with mosquitoes and the smell of standing water.

Strangest of all was the fact that the sky hanging over the property was green. It was probably just the effects of swamp gasses but one could not shake the feeling that the area was just…tainted. Tainted, perhaps, by something…otherworldly.

"I don't like it," Techie muttered sullenly, casting her eyes from left to right, scanning the area with undisguised unease.

"It's just a house," the Captain rationalized.

"A big old house," Techie responded. "A very big, very old, probably very haunted, big old house."

"Really, Ops?" The Captain admonished with a slight roll of her eyes. "Quoting _Spice World_?"

"Paraphrasing," Techie muttered.

"Anyway, it's not haunted."

"It crackles," Techie said ominously. "It crackles like the crossroads."

"It doesn't…okay, it's a little…static-y," the Captain conceded, "but so are lots of things. Are you really going to let that stop you?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"_Reeeally_?"

"Yes."

The Captain shrugged and started up the path to the front gate. "Well, I'm going inside."

"Captain, no."

"Yep."

"Captain, please."

"You can't stop me. You can only come with me and make sure I don't die."

"Captain!"

"I've made up my mind," she called back over her shoulder.

The sound of Techie struggling to run through the mud to catch up made the Captain smile a bit, right up until the other woman collided with her back with a squeak.

"For the record," Techie said much more flatly than she might have otherwise to help cover up her yelp, "I would like to state that this is a horrible idea."

"Your protest has been duly noted in the Captain's log…and let's be honest, it's no worse an idea than usual."

"Al wouldn't even get out of the car," Techie replied.

"Al's paranoid."

"No, Al's smart. It's only paranoia until you're proven right."

"It'll be fine."

"You think the place is static-y, I says it's crackly and Al—you know, Al? The one who attracts nothing but bad juju when there's juju to be found?—won't even set foot on the property. What does that tell you?"

The Captain tugged at the latch on the fence's gate. It gave with ease—and a creak that sounded like a dying animal. "It tells me we're in for one hell of a dinner party."

"I had a feeling you'd say something annoying like that," she grumbled, following the Captain to the front door along what could be called a cobblestone path if one were feeling very charitable. It was more like a series of jagged rocks, partially submerged in mud and covered with algae—slippery and rather stomach churning.

The two story mansion itself had fallen into severe disrepair, though it was in much better shape than it should have been, given how the surrounding property looked. At one time, it might have been a beautiful place that belonged in a Hollywood epic, but the paint was peeling from all the columns holding up the balcony and it had clearly survived at least one major fire. The front door looked solid enough, but its knocker was tarnished and the bell rope that hung next to it that had been red was frayed and black in places. The windows, however, were all stained glass, small and strangely pristine that depicted scenes of…well, it was impossible to be sure.

"Captain," Techie began nervously, "didn't Cthulhu have a cult in Georgia?"

"Louisiana," the Captain answered, reaching for the bell rope and giving it a tug. Dust and debris showered down from where the rope was attached and the doorbell gave an anemic wheeze.

"Huh," she said thoughtfully. "That was…gloomy."

The Captain yanked the rope again. This time, it came loose in her hand, the length of cord hitting the ground with a soggy thump.

They both stared at it for a moment.

The Captain remained upbeat, reaching for the tarnished knocker. "I guess we try the..."

_Skreee…_

In an instant, Techie was glued to the Captain's side, gripping onto her arm like a five year old clinging to a security blanket, her eyes wide and startled. "It opened by itself. The door opened by itself."

"We must be expected," the Captain said cheerfully.

"By Dracula, maybe!"

"I'm going in."

"Captain, no!"

"You're being ridiculous."

"I'm being cautious-ulous!"

The Captain turned to her friend, hands on her hips. "Didn't Eddums receive an invitation to this thing?"

"Yes…"

"And if he arrived first?"

Techie remained silent.

"Are you really going to let him stay in there in the big spooky haunted mansion all by himself?"

"You don't play fair," Techie sulked.

"That's why I win," the Captain said, stepping over the threshold and into the house. Techie followed, reluctantly.

The inside of the old house was much nicer looking than the outside suggested, which is to say it didn't entirely resemble a demilitarized zone, only partially. Moth eaten tapestries hung from the walls and the vertical gray striped wallpaper was peeling, but the dark hardwood floors, though worn, were freshly waxed and shiny. Cobwebs only inhabited about a quarter of the corners and several of the ancient gas lamps burned brightly— almost merrily.

The entryway was semi-circular with several hallways branching from it, like the spokes of a wagon wheel. Though the entire foyer was lit, the illumination only stretched down one corridor, the others threateningly dark, despite the fact it was only early afternoon outside. The architecture inside the house didn't really match up to the way it was built from the outside, but not knowing that no architect in his right mind would design a house in such a way, neither henchgirl really noticed beyond the general feeling of things being a little...off.

"The angles are all wrong," Techie muttered as they wandered deeper into the house, down the hallway lit with old gas lamps. The first few were bright and cheerful, but the deeper they got into the house itself, the lower the flames burned. Portraits that were obviously from the turn of the twentieth century, or perhaps even a little earlier, hung between each lamp and the next, and they grew more eerie the less light that was available.

"Eh. My bedroom at my parents' house was made up of nothing but wrong angles," Captain said with a shrug, seemingly unfazed by the atmosphere thick with creeping dread. "No big deal."

"Uh huh." Techie didn't seem to be listening, instead looking at each portrait as it came into view, studying it just long enough to feel uncomfortable and then staring straight ahead until the next one demanded her attention. The dark played tricks on her eyes, and she blinked rapidly every so often just to make sure that it was only the dusty air and the dark, not that the figures in the paintings were blinking back at her.

"I don't know what you're so worried about. We face off against Batman every day and he is way scarier than any old house."

"That," Techie said stubbornly, "is debatable. All Batman can do is beat us up and take us to the cops. The house could eat us and swallow our souls."

Captain sighed with exasperation. "Are you particularly attached to yours?"

"As a matter of fact...!"

"Then maybe you should go and wait in the car with Al."

The hallway was coming to an end now, opening into an almost opulent dining room—at least, opulent in comparison to the rest of the house they'd seen thus far. A crystal chandelier hung from a ceiling that seemed ridiculously high for a house with only two floors, but it looked somewhat lopsided, missing many crystals from one side. Beneath it, a long dining table made of solid cherry stretched from one end of the room to the other, with several lit candelabras in a line down its center.

Aside from the dining table and a couple of fainting couches against one wall, the room was pretty empty, with the exception of an old Victrola in one corner, next to a door that probably led to the kitchen. The old phonograph grabbed Techie's attention immediately, but she ignored the nagging desire to go and investigate, instead returning her focus to the dining room.

All along either side of the table, at least a dozen mismatched chairs resided, ranging in style from a plain pine kitchen chair to an emerald green Victorian gentleman's armchair to…

"A hickory stump?" Captain frowned thoughtfully at the bizarre assortment of seats. "This feels significant somehow."

In spite of her best efforts to the contrary, Techie finally let her curiosity overtake her trepidation and she wandered over to the Victrola to study it with questing, almost reverent fingers. It was probably a hundred years old, yet still in perfect condition.

Captain, meanwhile, approached the table. Handwritten place cards, made of thick, expensive card stock, were placed in front of every chair, but rather than being adorned with names as traditional formal dinner party cards should have been, they were scrawled with enigmatic messages.

She picked up the first, lying in front of a metal bar stool, the legs of which had been shortened to make it the right height for the table.

"_The days grow hot, o Babylon_," she read aloud. "What does _that_ mean?"

"I know that!" Techie paused in her study of the Victrola. "It's from..."

"From...?" Captain prompted.

Techie smiled, but it was a dead thing. "It's from _The Iceman Cometh._"

"Oh."

"Yeah," Techie replied grimly.

"Ha! Don't be silly," Captain said, though it was unclear whether she was trying to convince her friend or herself, "Mr. Freeze wouldn't show up here. Too hot in Georgia!"

She moved on to the next two place cards in front of a bench and held them up in the light. "_She then with her wand touched a lady so fine..._ and _Demeter._ Harley and Ivy are expected."

Techie made a little irritable sound from her corner, as Captain continued with the next card. "This one's just covered in gold glitter. Who do we know who's into glitter?"

"David Bowie?"

"He's not a supervillain."

"That we _know_ of," Techie remarked.

"Isn't there somebody who's got a thing for shiny stuff? Grackle or something like that?"

Techie shrugged, running her hands over the dusty phonograph horn. "Don't ask me. I can't keep track of every crackpot in Gotham. _Al_ can, but _I_ can't."

"'Dr. David Black," Captain read aloud. "This one I'm lost on."

Techie had stopped paying attention entirely, much preferring to fondle the old music maker. She inadvertently brushed the needle arm and it dropped into place suddenly, the Victrola turning on in the process, even though she hadn't turned the crank.

The music that filtered out of the phonograph was slower than it should have been, and it sounded not unlike a piano that hadn't been tuned in awhile. Strangest of all, though, beyond the sluggish tune and the fact that the Victrola had started playing itself, was the song that played.

The crackling ten inch record delivered a few weak, off-key organ chords and a dozen or so plucks of a guitar's strings before a slow, thick molasses voice began to sing, _Ti-i-i-ime is on my si-i-i-ide, yes it is._

Techie and Captain traded a look from their respective places in the room. "I knew the Rolling Stones were old, but I didn't think they were _that_ old."

"I'm sure it's just a record player rigged up to _look_ like a Victrola." Pulling the needle away from the record, Techie backed away from the corner and joined the Captain at the table, trying valiantly not to show that she was spooked and changed the subject. "So is there anywhere at that table for _us_ to sit?"

"There are so many cards it's hard to tell. There's a place for Quiz and Query, and a couple others that I can't be sure of—like this one, _Fingers of night will soon surrender the setting sun._ That's you, isn't it?"

"That's me. I don't know _how_ anyone knows that's me, but that's me." Techie was ashen. "Who in the hell _knows_ my nickname is tied to _Twilight Time_?"

"This is starting to feel like a trap."

"_Starting_ to?"

One of the candles on the table flickered and went out without warning. Then another,. The henchgirls looked at each other, edgy and quiet, waiting for more of the candles to sputter and die.

Hearts in their mouths, they waited in silence for a full twenty seconds.

"Probably just a coinciden—"

"The ghosts are moving tonight, restless... hungry."

Captain screamed. Techie screamed. They clung to each other like cartoon characters as a man stepped out of the shadows, flickering candlelight glinting off his round spectacles. He seemed ordinary enough in his well tailored suit—ordinary enough, at least, that the girls were comfortable shouting at him to cover their hysteria.

"What the hell, man? Don't sneak up on people like that!"

"Who do you think you are, Batman?"

Puzzlingly, his lips curled upwards ever so slightly.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said smoothly, extending a hand. "I am Doctor Hugo Strange."


End file.
